SCENE V.
Changes to a Palace.
Enter Queen, and Horatio.
Queen.
I will not speak with her.
Hor.
She is importunate,
Indeed, distract. Her mood will needs be pitied.
Queen.
What would she have?
Hor.
She speaks much of her father; says, she hears,
There's tricks i'th'world; and hems, and beats her heart;
Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,
That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing,
Yet the unshap'd use of it doth move
The hearers to collection; they aim at it,
And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts;
Which as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them,
Indeed would make one think, there might be thought,
8 noteTho' nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
9 note'Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strow
Dangerous conjectures in ill breeding minds.
Queen.
Let her come in.
[Exit Hor.
-- 258 --
To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is,
Each Toy seems prologue to some great Amiss;
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself, in fearing to be spilt.
Enter Horatio, with Ophelia, distracted.
Oph.
Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark?
Queen.
How now, Ophelia?
Oph.
How should I your true Love know from another one?6Q0268
1 noteBy his cockle hat and staff, and by his sandal shoon.
[Singing.
Queen.
Alas, sweet lady; what imports this Song?
Oph.
Say you? Nay, pray you, mark.
He's dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf, at his heels a stone.
O ho!
Enter King.
Queen.
Nay, but Ophelia—
Oph.
Pray you, mark.
-- 259 --
White his shroud as the mountain snow.
Queen.
Alas, look here, my Lord.
Oph.
Larded all with sweet flowers:
Which bewept to the Grave did go
With true love Showers.
King.
How do ye, pretty lady?
Oph.
Well, God 'ield you! They say, 2 notethe owl
was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we
are, but we know not what we may be. God be at
your table!
King.
Conceit upon her father.
Oph.
Pray, let us have no words of this; but when
they ask you what it means, say you this:
To-morrow is St. Valentine's day,
All in the morn betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose, and don'd his cloaths,
3 note
And dupt the chamber door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
King.
Pretty Ophelia!
Oph.
Indeed, la, without an oath, I'll make an end
on't.
-- 260 --
4 note
By Gis, and by St. Charity,
Alack, and fy for shame!
Young men will do't, if they come to't,
By cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, before you tumbled me,
You promis'd me to wed:
So would I ha' done, by yonder sun,
And thou hadst not come to my bed.
King.
How long has she been thus?
Oph.
I hope, all will be well. We must be patient;
but I cannot chuse but weep, to think, they
should lay him i' th' cold ground; my brother shall
know of it, and so I thank you for your good counsel.
Come, my coach. Good night, ladies; good night,
sweet ladies; good night, good night.
[Exit.
King.
Follow her close, give her good watch, I pray you.
[Exit Horatio.
This is the poison of deep grief; it springs
All from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude!
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions. First, her father slain;
Next your Son gone, and he most violent author
Of his own just Remove; the people muddied,
Thick and unwholesom in their thoughts and whispers,
For good Polonius' death; We've done 5 notebut greenly,
6 note
In hugger mugger to interr him; poor Ophelia,
-- 261 --
Divided from herself, and her fair judgment;
Without the which we're pictures, or mere beasts:
Last, and as much containing as all these,
Her brother is in secret come from France;
7 note
Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
With pestilent speeches of his father's death;
8 note
Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd,
Will nothing stick our persons to arraign
In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,
9 noteLike to a murdering piece, in many places
Gives me superfluous death!
[A noise within.
Queen.
Alack! what Noise is this?
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
